


The Third Wish

by fmo



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-20
Updated: 2017-05-24
Packaged: 2018-11-03 00:13:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10955667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fmo/pseuds/fmo
Summary: “Pay attention, Victor,” said the lady gently. “You’ll have three wishes. Make sure you spend them carefully. Just tell them to Makkachin, and he’ll make sure I hear.”Victor was unsure. “What kind of wishes? Can I wish for anything?”“Almost anything,” said the lady.“What if I wish to be the best skater in the world?"





	1. First Wish

Victor was a elementary school kid living in Moscow with his aunt when he found a tiny collarless puppy huddling in a grate at the side of the street under the long shadow of a tall apartment block. He’d always wanted a dog, and he knew he wasn’t allowed one in his aunt’s apartment, but the puppy was so small. When he picked it up it was just a nearly weightless warmth of fluff. It seemed miraculous to think that he was holding a life in his hands.

So, as always with Victor, he didn’t have to think much before making a decision. It was supposed to be spring, but the air was still freezing, and the puppy would die if he left it there. So he took it home. He put it in the pocket of his coat, spent his lunch money on a bottle of milk, and went home and made a kind of bed for the puppy in his old stretched-out winter hat. He found out that the puppy was too weak or young to understand the idea of drinking milk from a dish, so Victor improvised by putting his finger in the milk and letting the puppy happily lick it off. Then the puppy went to sleep in his hat.

Victor’s aunt didn’t get home from work until late, so Victor spent the evening tending to the puppy with fervent focus, even though he didn’t really know how to take care of a dog and had to make it up as he went along. Oh, if his teachers could see him now—they complained he never took anything seriously. But the dog seemed happy; it trusted him completely, and he hated the idea of having to give it up.

The next day, when faced with the decision of putting the puppy back outside in the cold to starve or leaving the puppy alone in the little apartment, where it might need him or destroy his aunt’s things, Victor chose to skip school and watch the puppy all day instead. He made the same choice the next day, and the next, until two weeks had gone past and his aunt came home with an awful expression and told him that the school had called her. She asked him why, and Victor felt like the worst person in the world because she had been so nice to him and he knew she didn’t even want him really. He cried, of course, and said he was sorry for not going to school, but said nothing about the puppy sleeping in the heap of blankets on his bed.

He cried that night as well, apologizing to the puppy for having to put it back outside. He didn’t want to be a bad kid, and he didn’t want to lose his puppy, which he’d named Makkachin. At least the puppy was a lot bigger now, and the weather was warmer. He hoped the puppy would be okay, that he wouldn’t be found by someone else and trained to be a bad dog, that he wouldn’t be caught as a stray and put down.

He left Makkachin outside in a box lined with his hat and walked away in tears as the puppy yipped. After a schoolday of listening to nothing and learning nothing, he ran back to find Makkachin, but instead found a beautiful tall lady with blonde hair so pale it was almost silver. The tall lady was wearing a beautiful long coat and seemed totally out of place in the boring street, but the most important thing was that she had Makkachin in her arms. 

“Hello, Victor,” the strange tall lady said.

Victor got right to the point. “Hello. Is he yours?” 

“Yes,” the tall lady said.

Victor swallowed. “Oh,” he said. This lady looked rich; she would give Makkachin a good home.

“Thank you for taking care of him,” the lady said, scratching behind Makkachin’s ears. “I’m very grateful. But, actually, I think he misses you. I think Makkachin would rather stay with you.”

“I’m not allowed,” Victor said.

“It’s all right. You’ll be allowed,” the lady said, reaching out to give a wriggling Makkachin back to Victor. 

Of course, Victor took the puppy, who immediately did his best to lick as much of Victor’s face as he could. Makkachin had a collar now—a purple one—and when Victor managed to get a look at the tag, he saw the name “Makkachin” on one side and Victor’s address on the other. “Who are you?” Victor said, holding the puppy tight and looking up at the lady. She was too strangely beautiful to be a normal person. Maybe she was a celebrity, or a princess of somewhere. Maybe she had talked to his aunt.

The lady just smiled and said, “I’d also like to give you a present as thanks for taking care of him. Three wishes.”

“What?” said Victor, still half-absorbed in cuddling Makkachin.

“Pay attention, Victor,” said the lady gently. “You’ll have three wishes. Make sure you spend them carefully. Just tell them to Makkachin, and he’ll make sure I hear.”

Victor was unsure. “What kind of wishes? Can I wish for anything?”

“Almost anything,” said the lady. 

Immediately, Victor thought of skating. He loved to watch any kind of figure skating on his aunt’s TV, but of course there was no money for skates or lessons. “What if I wish to be the best skater in the world? But I don’t have any skates.”

The lady nodded. “The wish will take care of that. Do you want to make that your first wish? You want to be the best skater in the world?”

“Okay, yes,” Victor said. “Yes, that’s what I want.”

The lady nodded again, smiled, and then said, “You should go home. I think your aunt has news for you.”

“Okay,” said Victor again, doubtful. It didn’t seem like any magic had happened or anything. But, still, he said thank you, since that seemed the right thing to do, and stuck his hand out to shake. The lady leaned down, shook his hand, and said, “Goodnight, little Victor.”

“Goodnight,” Victor said, and went home with Makkachin. He still had Makkachin in his arms when he pushed the door closed behind him and turned to see that his aunt was home early and sitting on their sofa. But she looked happy, not angry. The apartment also looked brighter, like the windows had been washed, and Victor thought some things were new, like the rug under the coffee table.

“Ah, there’s Makkachin!” said his aunt fondly. It had never occurred to Victor that his aunt might like dogs. “Vitya, please sit down. Don’t worry, this is something exciting.”

Victor sat down, and then his aunt told him, “The coach for our Olympic figure skaters saw you skating last week, and Vitya, he thinks you have real promise. He called me to ask my permission for you to move to Saint Petersburg and train with the junior skaters there.”

Makkachin, having finally wriggled free, gamboled around Victor’s feet while Victor tried to decide what to say. He knew he had never put an ice skate on his foot, let alone skated on a rink anywhere, let alone skated on a rink with the Russian Olympic skaters’ coach watching. But how could he argue when this was exactly what he’d wished—nearly too good to be true?

“You don’t have to make up your mind now,” his aunt started, but Victor didn’t need any more time.

“Yes, I want to go,” he said, heart beating fast. “I want to be the best skater in the world.” 

“Oh, Vitya,” his aunt said, pulling him into a hug. He thought she might be crying. “This is all so much . . . it’s so exciting for you, but I’ll miss you. We’ll have to call on the phone, okay?”

Victor hugged his aunt back and wondered if this was a part of the wish as well. He’d never thought his aunt would cry or say she missed him if he left. 

After that, everything happened quickly. His aunt—who had a job at a bank now apparently—was on the phone a lot, putting Victor’s things in a big suitcase and bringing home a crate for Makkachin and new clothes for Victor and even cute things like a tissue box cover that looked like Makkachin. Victor found out as well that he would be receiving private tutoring in Saint Petersburg, so he had to say goodbye to all his friends in school. And then the Russian Olympic skating team’s coach, Mr. Feltsman, drove up to their apartment and took Victor and his suitcase and Makkachin back to Saint Petersburg.

Mr. Feltsman didn’t smile much and didn’t talk much other than telling Victor that he would be responsible for walking and cleaning up after Makkachin, but that was okay with Victor because he didn’t remember when they were supposed to have met or why, so it was probably better if they didn’t talk. Instead, Victor spent the ride to Saint Petersburg playing with and petting Makkachin as best he could through the wire door of the crate on his lap.

In Saint Petersburg, Victor was taken to an ordinary looking house with a room that he’d have to share with a younger boy named Georgi and some dog bowls for Makkachin in the kitchen. As far as he was concerned, it was perfect. He was more occupied with worry about what would happen when he actually tried to, well, skate. He’d certainly tried to imitate the movements of figure skaters in his aunt’s living room when she was out, but that definitely wasn’t going to help much. 

In the end, though, when Victor put on his new figure skates (new ones, bought just for him!) and finally stepped out onto the ice with Mr. Feltsman somberly watching—the wish kept its promise. He held onto the barrier at the edge of the rink for a moment, sensing his own balance, but he didn’t feel like he was going to fall any more than he normally did when he was standing up, so he let go. And he still didn’t feel like he was going to fall, so he tried to skate forward, and that was so easy it felt like a dream Victor had once had where he could fly. He felt bubbly and sparkly and light, and he skated a bit faster and then twirled around, laughing, and went on backwards just because he could. It was only a good minute later when Victor stopped flying to see Mr. Feltsman and most of the junior and adult division skaters staring at him. Someone muttered the word “prodigy,” Victor was fairly certain. 

Mr. Feltsman hadn’t told him to stop, though, so Victor skated on past him again, circling the rink and doing something ballet-ish with his feet that he remembered adoring when he saw someone do it on TV once. It felt amazing. “I’m going to be the best skater in the world!” he called out to Mr. Feltsman, careless with delight. “I promise!” 

And he still had two wishes left, he realized that evening when he was lying in bed, antsy with the force of restraining himself from running right back to the rink and jumping on the ice. Two more wishes in his pocket. But what more could he wish for, he thought, burying his flushed face in Makkachin’s fur as the puppy wriggled in borrowed excitement, even though Makkachin didn’t understand why Victor was so happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So . . . what will Victor's second and third wishes be?
> 
> Also, please comment if you enjoyed this! Also, my apologies to Victor - for what it's worth, I think he would be a fantastic skater even without the wish.


	2. Second Wish

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please see the end notes for trigger warnings.

Victor was absolutely certain his free skate program would get him gold across the board in his first year in Juniors.

“You haven’t won gold yet,” Yakov said. “Watch the tape, Vitya. Even you can improve.”

Victor shrugged and took the tablet from Yakov. Yakov was always recording Victor’s routines, but he’d never asked Victor to watch and critique them before. It was kind of exciting, in a way. Victor had been growing out his hair despite Yakov’s vehement opposition to the idea; he liked the feeling of the wind in his loose hair when he skated fast or jumped, and he was interested to see how good it looked on video. Victor also had new practice clothes from his aunt for his birthday, and he wasn’t too ashamed to admit he’d specifically asked for v-neck shirts just like the ones Ilya wore. (Ilya was another of Yakov’s pupils and also Victor’s favorite skater in the world currently and always.)

So when Victor pressed “play” on Yakov’s video of him, he was eager to see, for the first time, what he looked like skating.

After the video started, though, Victor’s smile started to fade. His new clothes didn’t look as good as he thought. He’d heard Yakov telling the physical therapist about Victor’s short arms and legs and how Yakov hoped a growth spurt would improve his proportions, but Victor had ignored this just as he ignored most things Yakov said. Now it was very clear to him that Yakov was right. Victor felt graceful and lovely, like an air spirit, while he was skating, but he didn’t look that way. He looked like a stupid, short, stocky kid.

His hair also didn’t look as cool as he’d thought. It wasn’t a beautiful cloud swirling after him, but rather a bunch of stringy, colorless wisps. Victor’s aunt sometimes complained that her hair was too thin and flat—she always flipped her head upside down to dry it—and for the first time he could see what she was talking about.

Worst of all, when video-Victor finally finished his skate and looked over at Yakov, beaming, his face was all red with exertion. Victor had had no idea that he spent most of his time with a round red face, like a tomato, but the video told him that he did.

Victor left the tablet on a seat by the rink and left before Yakov could ask him what he thought. Instead, he went to hide in the locker room and think about how beautiful Ilya looked when he was skating—Ilya with his willowy arms and his shirts that showed off his collarbone and his soft chestnut brown curls and his dimples and his charming smile. Victor had thought he’d look just as lovely on the ice as Ilya and all the other skaters he'd idolized when he was younger, watching them on his aunt's TV. After all, Victor was the most gifted skater Yakov had ever taught. 

But being a good skater wasn’t enough. That was clear. When Victor thought of all the wonderful programs he’d seen, the skaters who captured their judges’ hearts, it wasn’t just about the skaters’ motions. It was about their bodies and their faces, the instruments for their music. And his wasn’t up to par.

“Vitya,” Yakov said from the locker room’s doorway. “What are you doing here?” It was unusually gentle for Yakov, but maybe Yakov knew from Victor’s expression that this wasn’t Victor’s usual disobedience. This was different; Victor’s heart was broken. It was awful to know that, intrinsically, you weren’t good enough—or at least your body wasn’t.

“Nothing,” said Victor, crossing his arms over his knees and resting his forehead on his forearms.

“ _Vitya_ ,” Yakov said again, but he came over to sit on the bench next to Victor. “Come on, now. No more of this. Did you watch the video?”

“No!” Victor said to his knees. “I hated it.”

Yakov took a deep breath, but said nothing. Yakov didn’t understand, anyway. Yakov didn’t need to be beautiful.

That night, Victor went home and got directly into bed, shutting the door on little Georgi (he could go entertain himself somewhere else, Victor's heart was broken) and only opening it again for a moment to allow Makkachin in. At least Makkachin loved him anyway, Victor thought.

Makkachin licked Victor’s face until he stopped crying, and then Victor petted Makkachin’s ears and said, “I’m ready to use my second wish.”

Makkachin gave him the same look of adoring interest that he always gave when Victor spoke to him. Victor wasn’t sure if it mattered, but he went on: “I wish to be beautiful always. That’s my second wish.” Victor waited for a response from Makkachin, but Makkachin just blinked and then licked Victor’s chin again. “Makkachin, that’s not an answer,” Victor said, scratching behind his dog’s ears anyway. 

Well, no obvious magic had happened the last time he’d used his wish. Victor swung his legs out of bed, and Makkachin jumped down onto the floor to follow him as he went to look at himself in the mirror over the sink in the small bathroom next to his and Georgi's room. As far as he could tell, he looked the same, but maybe the wish would take time. 

The next morning, Victor inspected his face in the mirror again. Maybe his hair looked different, longer? In the end, he wasn’t sure he saw any difference at all. His heart sank, and he spent the morning uncharacteristically falling over at practice until Yakov banned him from jumps for the day, which did not help his mood.

It wasn’t until at least a month later that Yakov told Victor to stand up against the wall and be measured, and then declared that Victor was maybe having an early growth spurt. “My legs hurt,” Victor said, and it wasn't just the usual soreness in his muscles. But the growth spurt, if that was what it was, didn’t seem to have any effect on Victor’s skating (of course), so Yakov didn’t seem to hold it against Victor. He just kept pushing Victor harder and harder, and Victor fell into bed each night so exhausted that he had no time to think about anything but that day's training and the ache in his limbs.

Then, the day after he won gold at Junior Nationals, Victor looked in the mirror and realized that his hair wasn’t just growing longer. It was getting less blond, more silver-toned, but nobody had commented on the change--not even Yakov. 

Victor stared at himself in the mirror, pored over the newspaper clippings of himself he'd gathered and the online images of himself on the podium, and asked himself what else had changed that nobody else noticed.

As Junior Worlds grew nearer, Victor's hair went on changing from washed-out blond to thick silver, and a slightly different Victor got out of bed each morning. But that was what growing up was like anyway; how could he tell what part of the difference was his own and what part was the wish? His face was getting less round and more slender, but wasn't that normal? It was true that Georgi hated him because Victor never had so much as a single blemish while Georgi had a full array of acne products on the bathroom counter, but was that just Victor's own good luck?

Victor won gold at Junior Worlds too, to nobody's surprise, and then a magazine for teen girls asked Victor for his first interview and a photoshoot. He asked to have Makkachin in the photoshoot as well, and tried to think of Ilya’s beautiful smile when he smiled for the camera. 

And that was how things went on. Victor won gold medals in Juniors, magazines and TV shows asked him for interviews, and people kept using the word "prodigy" to describe him, but they also started using the word "photogenic," and even, strangely, the word "charming." Despite this, or because of it, the fight between Victor and Georgi over the bathroom mirror became a daily occurrence. “You’re vain,” people told Victor. “Stop preening in the mirror and get to work,” Yakov would tell him. "If you want to look in the mirror, go to the ballet studio and improve your posture."

It wasn't really preening, though. Sometimes Victor was just getting to know his reflection, prodding at his now-silvery eyebrows and stretching out his long arms in perfectly graceful gestures. Other times, Victor was smiling at himself in the mirror, practicing his playful wink or trying to make dimples like Ilya's appear (they never did). 

Ilya had retired at the age of twenty-three and gotten married, and that had been its own kind of heartbreak once Victor was old enough to realize why he cared, but he never forgot the way Ilya had smiled at his audience, drawn them in. If Victor could just make his audience feel about him the way he'd felt about Ilya, he'd be more than the best skater in the world, more than a one or two-time Junior Worlds gold medalist. He'd be a legend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: dysmorphia, various body issues.
> 
> If you enjoyed this, please leave a comment! Final chapter is coming up within the week.


End file.
